Call It Her Survival Instinct
by xXSilverStoneXx
Summary: Hermione is not a bloody mental patient. She doesn't have that bloody medical bracelet on her wrist. She is perfectly sane, thank you very much. So why does she keep seeing her dead enemy?
1. All Magical War Heroes Have Issues

Chapter One

All Magical War Heroes Have Issues

Hermione Granger was a war hero. Before the war, she wouldn't have hesitated. But now, all of the paparazzi faced her, Harry, and Ron, snapping shots with their large, obnoxious cameras, not letting her go out with a guy without the paparazzi scaring off the poor bloke. Not to say she was ungrateful. No, not ungrateful. It was her choice to pick a side in the war and fight on it. It turned out to be the winning side. Therefore, fame was served on a no-return-now platter. It wasn't all bad, she supposed. She didn't hate the pay raise the Ministry gave her, nor the large condo.

She did hate, however, the way the paparazzi kept attempting to match her up with Ron who, in her opinion, seemed a tad too optimistic about the fact. And she hated the way they picked on her outfits all of the time. She was a war hero, not a model! Plus, she disliked the way they could always find a way in. In her living room in the mornings, when she was barely awake, sipping her coffee whilst checking the news, the curtains seemed to always find their way open and a nosy camera always seemed to find its lenses pressed against the window.

This seemed like a lot more dislikes than likes. The paparazzi didn't like anybody. If they got a particularly crazy image of her on a bad hair day when she looked like Bellatrix Lestrange, well, it would be plastered all over the tabloids. So she couldn't risk anyone seeing what she wanted to do. So she couldn't do what she wanted to do, at least until the paparazzi calmed down a little bit. But it had been three years and the paparazzi count had not decreased in the slightest.

It wasn't getting worse, like some psychological conditions seemed to. No, but it was getting more annoying. See, Hermione had been the smartest witch in her class. She did not get that honor by sitting around and waiting for someone else to hand her the notes so she could do the essay for homework. She didn't get that honor by sitting quietly and not asking questions. No, Hermione asked questions, worked hard, and thought logically. And that was how she became smartest witch. So she didn't want to just sit around and hope her condition would pass. No, because she had no misgivings. It would not pass. It had been three years and, though it showed no signs of getting stronger, it did not seem to be weakening either.

Her condition wasn't like others. She had searched through all of the bloody Healing books in the bloody Hogwarts library and hadn't found a single bloody thing. So she put it to the back of her mind, knowing that she would be crazy if she attempted to solve the unsolvable. Completely un-Hermioneish. But she knew just how well solving a mystery that was all in her head would work. She knew this from years in Healing class. The Mental Health unit,

She put her relationships and work first. She hung out with Ginny, Ron, and Harry at least once a week. She currently had a boyfriend. She was finally getting over the aftereffects of the War, which had haunted her ever since it had occurred.

She kept remembering Tonks and Lupin, lying there, hands entwined, dead. She kept remembering the ghastly look of pain on all of the Weasley's faces when they saw Fred, body lifeless with no wounds. She saw all of the losses over and over, as if on a horrid sideshow in her brain.

It had gotten so bad, she had begun taking Dreamless Sleep potion. It had helped her get rest, the deep purple circles under her eyes had disappeared, and she fell headlong into friendships again. Ginny, Harry, and Ron were completely forgiving of her zombie-like personality. Hermione always hd been sensitive, and the War had struck deep inside her.

So Hermione started creating a Lycanthropy cure. For Lupin and his kid. So that werewolves would not be isolated from the world with their monthly animal habits. She had quite a few people willing to sponsor such a project, knowing Tonks or Lupin after the war. Hermione was so excited and she dove straight into the project, researching like she had when she was studying for McGonagall's exams.

That was around when her condition started up. She was completely freaked out, because she knew that it couldn't be. So she researched hallucinations and the like, or war trauma, but none of the illnesses had quite the same side effects as these.

Hermione began to get used to the condition, but every once in a while, it crept up on her and scared the wits out of her.

DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG

Hermione ran her brush through her tangled curls in a last-minute attempt to look presentable. She was going out to a club with Ginny and didn't really feel like going. So she gave a half-assed attempt.

The doorbell rang. Hermione ran barefoot to open the door, brush in hand. She swung open the door quickly to invite Ginny in.

"Hey, Gin! What's up?"

"Nothing... Yet."

"Can you, er, wait one sec? I, uh, need to finish getting ready."

"Sure, Mione. I'll just help myself to some... Wine. Mmm. The expensive kind. Dee-lish. Take your sweet time, Mione!"

Hermione ran back to her bedroom. She had seen Ginny, who looked bloody amazing. So Hermione was going to try a teensy bit harder. Hermione got exasperated with the hair brush and just pulled out her wand, cast the Brushing Spell, and wielded it over her head like a brush. It worked much better than the hairbrush. Next, she cast the Straightening Spell on her hair, which fell to the small of her back, glossy and beautiful, when it was not all hung up in curls. She checked her outfit, which consisted of silver skinny pants- they weren't jeans, a different feel to them, more slide-y- a sexy, flowy, blue gradient tank, and some golden bangle bracelets. Hermione pulled on a pair of tall, spiky black heels and applied blue eyeliner and deep red lipstick. She looked like a goddess.

She walked back to the living room, trying to get her feet used to the heels. She attempted to stop wobbling precariously and fell into a heap on her soft armchair. Ginny was sitting on the couch in a simple deep green halter top, white short-shorts, and black leggings under them. She wore knee-high black boots with a wicked heel to them. Her outfit was rather simple but it brought emphasis to her face. She had applied black makeup heavily, but she didn't look like a Goth. She looked like a mix between a tough girl in a gang or something and a temptress. Gin also had deep red lipstick. She wore a gold locket that dipped into her cleavage. Overall, Hermione thought it suited Ginny very well.

"Mione, you look amazing."

"You too, Gin. Decided on a mixer, huh?" Indeed, Ginny was sipping from a glass that did not look like fine wine. Which, incidentally, it was not.

"Yeah. Hope ya don't mind."

"Sure, it's fine. Ready?"

"One... Last... Sip." And with a big slurp, Ginevra Weasley was finished with her mixer.

Ginny stood up unsteadily. Maybe she drank more alcohol than she meant to. Whoops.

Hermione could practically read Ginny's mind. She cast a Sobriety charm and popped Ginny a small Hangover potion that she kept in her purse for emergencies. Ginny sent her a grin with her cherry-red lips.

They Apparated to the club, which was bustling with activity even at nine o'clock (Hermione had an interview tomorrow, so she had to e back relatively early).

She knew that she wouldn't be looking for a guy, but sometimes just dancing and flirting was good enough to take her mind off of things. She only hoped that her boyfriend wouldn't mind.

DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG

Hermione settled into her chair, ready for a night of casual TV-watching. Of course her condition had to do its magic now. She looked around and distinctly heard a murmur. She hated her condition.

It was utterly annoying. She was going to solve the damn mystery once and for all. She was a war hero, dammit! She could solve her little post-war condition.

**Any ideas about Hermione's condition? I'm sorry that this chapter was boring, but I need a starting chapter, so bear with me. Draco will show up soon, I swear.**

**Review? Please? Seven reviews and I'll post the next chapter by next week ;)**


	2. Guess Smartness Isn't Required

Chapter Two

Apparently You Don't Have To Be Smart To Be a Healer

Thank you for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows!

I'm sorry. Still no Draco :(

But I'm getting there

Has anybody guessed what's going on? I'm trying to make it kind of mysterious.

Hermione Granger didn't quit trying to find the cause of her condition. On weekends, she pored through books, not stopping until she had pages and pages of notes. On work days, she stared at her notebook when she was free, hoping she would have a brain flash. Wishful thinking.

So, needless to say, after weeks of hard work, she started to tone down the intensity a little. Telling herself that she could deal. Saying it was still important, but there were more important things in her life.

She finally came to the decision to call a Healer to Floo directly into her home. She knew it would attract attention, maybe even more so than if she openly Apparated to the Ministry, because she was doing it in secret and there was more likelihood of a gossipy story in a secret rendezvous. Hell, they would probably make up a story like War Heroine Hermione Granger Secretly Seeing (insert Healer's name). But she was done with her condition, once and for all.

Hermione Flooed to the Ministry's private Floo spot. Only, it's not private. Just that the other ones are more public. She arrived, sauntering lightly to the Help desk. She knew that her every move would be watched, and if she looked carefree, it might cause less speculation. Just a normal check-up or something.

Hermione leaned on the desk and the young, pretty blonde who was currently working the desk looked up. She saw immediately who it was, matched Hermione's face with all of the images of her on the magazines and newspapers, and smiled shyly.

"May I help you?" The blonde had a soft voice.

"Yes. I would like to hire a private Healer for Saturday afternoon."

"Alright, just let me look at the calendar..." she trailed off, searching the calendar, "Yes, Miss, Mr. Cameron Boyde can assist you. What time Saturday, Miss?"

"Two."

"Address?"

"The Ministry has that. Mr. Boyde should be able to access it if needed. Thank you." Hermione had sensed that this girl was one without a particularly strong will, so over drinks tonight, the blonde would spill everything. She really did not need a horde of drunk female admirers all pining outside her door for an autograph (it had happened). She was brisk, but not rude. She had perfected that art after listening to Lavender, Ron's girlfriend, prattle on about makeup and cosmetics. Of course, she didn't much care for Lavender, so she might have been a teensy bit on the rude side while removing herself from the conversation. Might have been. Just a bit.

DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG

Mr. Boyde arrived outside of her apartment at exactly two o'clock. She had to admit, she was pleased. She ushered him in, in sweats and a tank top, with her hair in a messy bun and her warm tea between her hands. She had been so tired from the night before, she had slept in until 12:30. How embarrassing. She had just taken a shower and she was aware of the thin fabric of her shirt. She had lost track of time.

"Hello, Mr. Boyde."

"Hello, Ms. Granger. Shall we proceed?" Hermione nodded towards the comfortable seats near the fire. He took a seat and she leaned against the wall. She didn't like Mr. Boyde yet; one could say that she didn't have anything to base the opinion on, but she had seen the way his eyes lingered on her chest. She wished she would have had a female Healer.

"First, I would like to make this completely clear. This is not mentionable to anyone outside of this room. The charm that I am about to cast will ensure this; if you attempt to share this personal, classified information, I will know and you will not have a very important part of your anatomy. Understood? Don't attempt to remove the spell; it shall do more harm than help." Mr. Boyde was completely shocked. Hermione Granger was supposed to be a sweet little girl. Guess she had grown up.

"Understood, Mr. Boyde?"

"Completely, Miss." Well, he supposed that being in that War had forced everyone to grow up early.

"Thank you. It was necessary. I don't need my news plastered all over the front page." He felt magic wash over him. Must have been her spell.

"So, why did you call me here?"

"Ever since the war, I have had issues. I have been seeing flashes of platinum blond hair and stormy gray eyes. They belong to Draco Malfoy, who is dead. I would figure that they were just hallucinations, but I was able to resist most hallucination curses while others can't. It has been annoying the hell out of me- I apologize for my language- and I have no idea what to do."

"Oh. Well.." he knew well the story of the young Malfoy boy. He studied Ms. Granger intensely for a second. "No history of hallucinations in your family... Might it be war trauma? Did you have feelings for Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione looked at him. Might he not know about the famous Granger-Malfoy witty remarks debates that occurred every time they met? He must not. Damn. Everyone knew about that. Everyone.

"The feelings I had for Mr. Malfoy were not the feelings that would cause me to hallucinate just to see him." she said carefully. Really, she just wanted to tell the man that he was an idiot and that everyone knew that they hated each other. She restrained herself.

"We'll, what about war trauma, Miss?"

"No. I researched it extensively, and none of the symptoms were hallucinations, especially not those that have sound and are of your enemy."

"Sound?"

"Yes. It is strange. So, a couple days ago, I heard a small sound. Of course, I didn't think much of it. Probably nothing, right? But then I heard a 'Damn!' coming from the same place. The voice was Draco Malfoy's."

"Well, Ms. Granger, this is a truly peculiar case. I will research more and send my Patronus to you when I have found something. You can then schedule another meeting."

"Alright. Thank you, Mr. Boyde." Hermione was forced to reconsider her opinion. He had acted perfectly professional.

DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG DMHG

Hermione sat at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee clutched in her hands while she read the Daily Prophet. Apparently Auror training was starting up again. Hermione's dream job had been an Auror, but the Ministry had ended the training when many of the instructors had been murdered during the War. Also, many people's magic had been unpredictable since there were so many losses and when the body count really hit you, emotions took over. Plus, everyone needed recuperation, time to mourn.

Finally, they were opening it up again. Hermione toyed with the idea of going to sign up. Harry and Ron would be ecstatic; they had always wanted to be Aurors together. Ron, when drunk, had said that he could just imagine their faces on an Auror sign-up poster: Harry in the front, hair brushed so that the scar would be visible, him on Harry's right, holding out his wand and glaring ferociously, and Hermione on the left, holding out her wand with a big bag on her shoulder that was obviously full of books. Harry had cracked up and Hermione had laughed; so true.

She decided that, before she wimped out, she would Apparate to the Ministry and sign her name on the sheet.

She Apparated before she could think this through.

She pulled out her fancy quill and scrawled Hermione Granger on the sign-up sheet, smiling. Of course, though, she had forgotten all of the reporters that were always watching her. They swarmed her as she finished signing. Shit.

"Hermione Granger just signed up for Auror training! Comments, Ms. Granger?

"War Heroine, Ms. Granger, reasons why you signed up?"

"Care to do an exclusive interview with the Prophet?"

"Look here, please, Ms."

Hermione Apparated quickly. She sighed when she got back home. That was stupid. Now the next morning, she would have to face headings that questioned her morals. Damn. She hated when she got all impulsive.

R&R!


	3. The Smartest Witch Hallucinating- Damn

Chapter Three

The Smartest Witch Of the Year Shouldn't Be Hallucinating- It's a Bad Example

Hermione sighed. The retribution for her rude Apparition had arrived. She knew it would, of course, but it didn't lessen the blow when she saw completely inaccurate headlines such as Hermione, War Heroine, Dating Chosen One? Hell no. Even though Harry was a good friend, she shuddered at the thought of being with him in that sense.

At least Mr. Boyde hadn't leaked her "hallucinations" (as he liked to call them... How she wished there was a medical term for 'sees and hears things that aren't there but is not insane, drunk, or drugged'.) to the press. That would, plainly, suck.

She heard pounding in her door. She cast a charm so that the door became see-through on her end only. Of course. The media. Well, bugger. They had already arrived. It was eleven in the morning, dammit. She should still be sleeping.

Hermione blearily rubbed her eyes, debating inwardly whether or not to open the door. She looked like shit, but if she didn't open it, there would be headlines like Hermione Granger, Sleeping With Someone Secret? And that, too, would suck.

So she cast a charm on her clothes to soothe out the wrinkles, swiped a tube of lip gloss across her lips, and pulled her hair into a bun that she sincerely hoped like she meant for it to be messy.

She swung open the door, taking the nearest reporters by surprise. They jumped back and she smirked. Camera flashes went off, making her see spots. She wanted to roll her eyes, but God knew what the reporters would take that as.

"Ms. Granger, care to share why you signed up for Auror training?'

"Sure. I signed up- get this- because I want to be an Auror! Crazy, right?" Hermione was completely fed up with these reporters. She could see quills jotting down her angry retort. Everything was just building up. She got angry and attempted to keep it in and then those nosy reporters came in and she just blew up. Wonderful. Might even make front-page news.

"Ms. Granger, have you been seeing someone recently?"

"Yes, someone new."

"Ms. Granger, are you back with Ronald Weasley, ex-flame?" Hadn't she just answered that she was seeing someone NEW? What an idiot.

"No."

"Ms. Granger, is it true you secretly were a pureblood Voldemort supporter?" What. The. Hell. That was it.

"No. I suggest you take a look at the Death Eaters in Azkaban. You'll find, when they ask who put them there, they will snarl 'Hermione Granger.' Also, check out The Wizarding War II. It has the injured and dead Death Eaters listed and it says who did that to them. Count the ones that say Hermione Granger and then ask yourself if I'm a secret pureblood Voldemort supporter. I think you'll find the answer without coming back and bothering me." With that, Hermione closed the door, quickly. She heard a short chuckle that quickly died down, almost as if someone were realizing that they had laughed aloud and weren't supposed to. It was coming from her bedroom. She grabbed her wand and tiptoed to her room. She, once again, caught a flash of blond hair and, this time, heard a muttered, "Damn." Then it disappeared; right in the corner of her room.

This was crazy. Hallucinations couldn't seem this real, could they? Well, yes, they could, but for drugged, drunk, or insane people. Not the smartest-witches-of-the-years, right? Right?

Hermione attempted to distract herself by calling upon the two-way paper that she and her boyfriend shared. He was at work, but she couldn't stand it anymore.

Hi!

Waiting... Waiting... Waiting... No response. Damn.

She searched around her apartment for an old, classic paperback. She couldn't even find her raggedy copy of Romeo and Juliet!

She decided to work on her little mystery a little bit more. She pulled her laptop out of the messenger bag Harry had gotten for her for Christmas. Opening up a new text document, she typed Facts About My Condition.

-See flashes of Draco Malfoy's hair.

-Hear his voice.

-He is dead.

-I have no history of insanity or war trauma in my family.

-Whenever anyone else is here, they don't hear the voice or see the hair.

-Not war trauma.

-Not insanity.

-I am not drunk or drugged.

Bit of a short list, no?

Hermione was forced to consider a new option. She twisted her long hair around her finger until her finger began turning purple; then, she let it go, thinking hard.


	4. The Million Dollar Question

Chapter Four

The Million Dollar Question... Insane or Not Insane?

Could it not have been in her imagination? Could she really be seeing Draco Malfoy? Could he not be dead? Could he be hiding in her house? Could it be?

Hermione knew this was a long shot, but she Owled the Ministry, asking for copies of the Daily Prophet from around the War time. She wanted to know if Draco Malfoy's body was found. If it was, she really was going insane. If it wasn't, well, she would cross that bridge when she got to it.

She waited, pacing, wearing a track in her soft carpet. She knew it was irrational, because the Ministry probably would not respond right away and she was wasting her time, but she couldn't bring herself to start reading or something. That wasn't enough excitement. Finally, her life was getting exciting. After the War, she had a social life and was settling down. She wasn't planning to marry her boyfriend, any time soon, but she had friends and a job and an apartment. She was happy, but there was no passion. No wild, unHermioneish actions. And that depressed her. Sure, she wanted to have kids. When she was thirty. She wasn't ready to be done with her youth, even though she knew she would have to face the daunting task of growing up. Sure, she was mature. Didn't mean she wanted a sparkly rock on her finger, restricting her life, just yet. She just wasn't ready for that commitment.

People from Hogwarts would say Hermione had lived for commitment, prepping her life perfectly. She had studied hard, aced every test she'd taken, and graduated top of the class. She and Ron were expected to be a couple. She had her whole life planned. Ron would get scouted for the Chudley Cannons, she would get a job at the Ministry, they would have two brown-haired, blue-eyed kids and two red-haired, brown-eyed kids. That was how her life was supposed to go. Key word being supposed to be. Ron had mucked it all up by cheating on her with Parvati Patil, of all people. Parvati being the one who seduced Viktor. Viktor Krum, Quidditch star, Hermione's first boyfriend. He had cheated on her too, right after the Yule Ball, of all places. When she had looked beautiful. Parvati had ditched Harry and gone straight to Big Shot Quidditch Star.

A standard Ministry owl flew around her window. Good. It wasn't a stupid owl that attempted to fly through the glass. She appreciated when people took time to train owls so they didn't lose brain cells they couldn't afford to lose by bumping into windows. Actually, that was untrue. Owls were very smart animals. She had just had some bad encounters with them.

She saw a thick stack of newspapers, many different images waving at her. One was Rita Skeeter, a writing on the war. Another was an image of a perky blonde that worked for the Ministry. She was their face, the image they pasted on all of their writings to make them look better because she was Barbie-perfect. Slim, tan legs, large chest, short, small feet and hands, and soft, perfect hair. Whenever Hermione saw people like this: short, big-chested, and thin, she automatically thought Bitch. Anyone who was that pretty was bound to be vain.

Hermione had tried to rid herself of that. Just petty jealousy, right? There could be some pretty people out there who were nice as hell. Well, nice as heaven, let's say, cause otherwise, that's a pretty sucky comparison.

Hermione wasn't ugly. Far from it. But she was less of an ice queen, perfect, poised, elegant, beautiful, aloof, and more of an approachable, warm look.

She was pretty. She wasn't gorgeous, though, and she was insecure about her looks. She wished that she wasn't. She had a small chest and hips, was short, and really was not a Barbie doll.

Hermione pulled herself from her thoughts and pulled off the large tie holding the newspapers together. She Accio'ed an owl treat and the owl nipped her finger lightly before taking off once more. Hermione watched it fly away until it was out of sight. So lucky, to be completely free.

She put out the newspapers on her small kitchen table logically: she spread them in order by date. She opened each one to the table of contents and started reading the newspaper that came right after the war.

Dark Mark, Severus Snape, members of the Light killed, Bellatrix torturing Hermione (she shivered at the reminder of the crude 'Mudblood' carved into her arm)... Not in this newspaper.

Next. Ollivander's store reopening, Wizarding World Starts Piecing Itself Together Again, Knockturn Alley being closed... Nada.

Next newspaper. She hurriedly glanced down the list of contents.. Harry Potter Exclusive Interview, Quidditch teams scouting, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger Dating! (Damn, this was a really tabloid-y Daily Prophet), and... Death Eaters!

Hermione flipped to page twenty-six where she learned that the origin of Death Eaters came from an old Slytherin saying, that many younger teens were forced to get the Dark Mark because of their parents, that getting the Dark Mark "hurt like effing hell," that Voldemort tortured their family when they could not perform Unforgivables, and altogether this article made Hermione feel pity, even though many of her friends had been killed by the reluctant Death Eaters.

No body counts. Damn.

Next newspaper.

Nope.

Next.

Oh, here it was! Death Eater bodies found include Lucius Malfoy, Fenrir Greyback, the Carrows, Antonin Dolohov, Yaxley, and other people whose names did not mean anything to her. No Draco Malfoy.

She wanted to stand up and dance around. She wasn't a psycho.

But this meant that Draco Malfoy was actually staying in her house. Was he trying to make her psycho? Because his laugh, muttered words, and platinum blond hair had freaked Hermione out.

"Not funny, Malfoy!" she yelled. She hoped that she had surprised him. Instead, she heard a low chuckle. She spun around, expecting to see Draco Malfoy right in front of her. When he wasn't there, she sighed in defeat and cradled her head in her hands.

Now she had to find Draco Malfoy. Who was hiding in her own goddamn house.

And probably was armed. With a wand.

Bloody perfect.


	5. Hooray for Not Being a Bloody Maniac

**Sorry for not uploading for so long, but I do have Change of Plans pretty well set :) I'm not abandoning this story, although CoP is my major priority, along with New Blood on Wattpad (my username's MysticMadness in case you were curious)**

**This is a short-ass chapter, but I can't really split Draco's tale into two chapters, and I know it will take at least a chapter. I have it planned out; I should have the next chapter up by Wednesday.**

**Please, don't give up on this story. Since school's getting out, I'll have more time to write and hopefully get this story goin' lol**

**Luv you all~**

_**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, dayum what would I do... Well, I don't.**_

Chapter Five

Hooray for Not Being a Bloody Maniac

Hermione grabbed her floor plan, which had all of the exits on it in case of an emergency. She started in the kitchen, cast a Revealing Charm, a Exposure Charm, and basically every charm she knew that would display something that might not be seen on first sight. The bracelet that she had lost sometime in January flew out from behind her refrigerator. Strange, but no secret hiding place where Malfoy might be hiding.

She did the same with every room until she got into her bedroom. As creepy as it was that someone might have been hiding in her bedroom for three years and her never noticing, it was the best place. A lacy blue bra was flung over her chair, knickers hanging off of her computer, a cashmere cardigan hanging over her door, a mesh backpack used when she went to the gym dropped carelessly beside of her bed.

She flushed at the idea of Malfoy seeing her undergarments, but figured that she was wasting time standing there, letting the blood rush to her face.

She cast the charms and knew immediately that something was amiss. There was a deep green glow emanating from the room itself, subtle and glaringly obvious at the same time.

She looked around for a hint of the blond hair that had made her think she was going crazy for three years.

Nope.

But a deep voice came from behind her and she knew exactly who it was.

Draco Malfoy himself.

Fucking lovely. She shrieked and jumped back about five steps, and he surveyed her with a cool glance. She raised an eyebrow, and he sent a grudging smile her way. A bloody weak way of saying sorry for making you feel like you're going crazy, but really, there probably isn't a Hallmark card that says that.

"Chill, Granger." Oh, he went there. He lived in her freaking room for three years without permission, so what the hell made him think he was entitled to tell her to chill? She sent a killer glare his way, and, to her extreme surprise, he backed off.

"Sorry, Granger," he said, hands in the air like he was getting arrested. She cracked a smile at that, but soon realized: he had been living in her ROOM for three years. Meaning that every guy she had taken home? He had seen. Jesus. How many men had she bedded in the last three years? There was Ronan, Caleb, and Christopher. Thank God she wasn't like Parvati-a "free spirit" as she had dubbed herself, meaning basically that she would sleep with any hot guy that so much as looked at her-because that would have made for one really awkward conversation... "How's it going, Malfoy?" "Oh, I'm just wondering what that last guy's name was. He was pretty hot." She shuddered at the thought.

The smile quickly dropped off her face, and she grabbed Malfoy's arm, yanking him into the kitchen while she boiled a pot of tea. She poured it into two mugs and pushed one over to Malfoy, with a single word accompanying it, "Explain."

Malfoy looked down into his tea, spooning honey into it, stalling for time. Eventually he looked up and met her eyes. She held her breath, preparing for the whole story. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. Why he had been staying in her room. Why he had been staying with her at all. Whether he had the Dark Mark and, if so, why? Was it his choice or his family's? Was it for pride or from force? Did it hurt? (Not because she was planning on getting a Dark Mark anytime soon: Voldemort had just been defeated. But she was a naturally curious person. She had tons of questions. And she really freaking deserved some answers.)

He opened his mouth to speak. Hermione leaned forward expectantly. She needed this story. And then she needed to find out what he had seen. And make sure he didn't spread it around.

"It all started when-"


End file.
